sheltered
by endlessly wandering
Summary: Somehow, the state of Oklahoma rewarded my father a son, a gift he should've cherished, and instead only pushed farther and farther away. Sequel to wild horses.
1. Chapter 1

_This story (hopefully not too long) will probably be my last piece for a long time. I need a break from writing, if that hasn't been apparent by my scattered updating schedule._

 **sheltered**

There comes a time in your life where you have to let go.

For my mother, that time came when I was only ten. I watched my father throw a thousand and one fits, papers reading the words _divorce_ and _custody battle_ springing to life across a page. I watched my mother pack her things with the hardest, and saddest, look in her dark brown eyes.

There's also a time in your life where you have to realize your mistakes, and how that has affected everyone around you.

For my father, that time came when my mother left him alone in our old house. That time came when, bloodied and bruised internally, he wandered the streets and came to our door at night, begging Momma to take him back. That time came when the divorce was final, Momma got her two youngest boys, and Dad got his eldest.

I'll never know if Darry enjoyed being with Dad. From what it seems, it really threw him for a loop that he hasn't recovered from. I'll never ask the words, "How did Dad treat you?" because I know damn good and well it wasn't anything less than shit. Somehow, the state of Oklahoma rewarded my father with a son, a gift that he should've cherished, and instead only pushed farther and farther away.


	2. Chapter 2

**sheltered**

Abuse, whether physical, mental, or emotional, is still abuse.

It's funny, the things that happen to you when you live with an abuser. I helplessly watched from our old house as my brothers were constantly taken places I'd never go, got to visit stores and shops I'd never get to see, got to wear clothes I'd never feel against my skin. They got to live with her; my mother, my sole purpose of being on this earth.

Everything––my beginning and my end––was made by her. It was _for_ her.

And in the end, the court ruled that I live with my father. So, the middle of my life was not as wonderful as theirs.

* * *

The summer of 1967 was a summer I forced myself to forget.

Momma had come over, in one of her rare attempts to get me out of the house for a while. She hated my father, probably hated me, and yet she still wanted me around. Couldn't say the same for Soda or Pony, who were shouting at her from the car to come on, because they were bored and wanted to go to the beach.

Momma stared Dad hard in the face, her eyes pleading, and said, "I want to take Darry to the beach with us."

Dad's drunken slurs answered her, and I saw her memories take her back to when we were all together. "Hell no. He's my son––"

" _Our_ son, Darrel," Momma's eyes grew cold, her voice taunt and shaking.

"––and he ain't going anywhere with you, or those boys."

That was it. There was nothing more Momma could do, or anything that Dad would let her do. She moved to come in the house; to revisit the hellhole she'd been stuck in for years. Dad's huge, wolf-like arm––rugged and rippling with veins of pure hot oil––blocked her view of me, and his voice was low with a heat soon to blaze through the whole house.

I heard Soda honk the horn, Ponyboy screaming in the backseat for Momma. Soda's call to her meant business: "Come _onnnnn,_ Momma! Let's go! Pony won't _shut up_ and I'm gonna rip my ears off!"

In front of her, Dad snickered. "Better get to it, girl," he said, set in his way. "Don't wanna keep your precious boys waiting, now do you?"

Momma's bottom lip shivered with an unshed cry. She looked at me, and I looked at her, and I think we both know what would happen when that door shut in her face.

The door slammed her out onto the front porch. Dad said nothing to me, only went into the kitchen and ripped the phone off the wall, the monotonous _bzzzzz_ of the telephone line going silent.


	3. Chapter 3

_Must be in a writing mood. :)_

 **sheltered**

I'm always waiting.

There isn't much to it. Just a bunch of punches, a few kicks, a couple of wads of tobacco-rich spit hitting me in the face. It's all over in a matter of minutes, the pain only driving him further into an ecstasy I don't quite understand.

Sometimes, he doesn't do it at all. All he does is look at me with disgust, as if he didn't want me in the first place. Sometimes, all he does is throw bottles and yell in his bedroom.

I'm always on edge.

I'm always in pain.

I'm always waiting for that next hit, that next punch, that next bout of rage that makes my father a man I don't ever want to become.

But I can feel myself becoming him, and that hurts more than any of his rages ever could.

Momma raised us all to be Catholic. We were all brought up believing in God, praying to Him whenever times got tough. We were taught to love and cherish Him, to never go against Him; to always know that we were His children, and that He would save us from our sins when the time came.

Well, where is the big guy in the sky now? Where is He when I really need Him, in a situation I can't fix and would do anything to get out of?

Dad can't stand to hear me praying at night. So I don't; I sit in the darkness of my bedroom, trying not to speak too loud.


	4. Chapter 4

**sheltered**

He talked about running away a lot.

Though, whenever I asked where he would go, silence was my response. All Dad did was shrug the question off, almost like he didn't even know where he would go, just knew that he _wanted_ to go. Part of me thought it was some distant place only drunks could imagine; those lands where their wildest dreams come true, where they separate their mind and their body into two distinct parts of themselves.

Only, Dad didn't dream that often, and he usually had to get about three beers into his system before he could even begin to imagine that better place.

That better place where he didn't have a son, even though he'd begged the judge to let him have me. The better place where all he could––and would––do is drink, snort some cocaine, and maybe let it all go for a while.

But he always told me that one day, he would run away. "I'll go so far your bitch of a mother won't ever find me," he told me more times than I'd wanted him to. Then, he'd jab his finger in my face and growl, "And that means she won't find you either, little shit." before going into his bedroom and shutting the door.

* * *

Somehow, once a week, I was able to write to my mother. It wasn't much; Dad only gave me one sheet of paper, and my spelling was atrocious to the point where I'm surprised Momma could even make out the words.

I remember the first letter I ever wrote to Momma. I told her nothing that she didn't already know: how Dad was a drunk bastard, how I was being hit and kicked and screamed at for things that weren't even my fault, how I barely got any food and felt like I could throw up at any moment. I'd given it to Dad in the envelope sealed with _To My Momma_ on the front in dark purple marker, hoping that he would just go and put it in the mailbox.

Of course, my hope was short-lived as Dad ripped the envelope open. His dark eyes scanned the note, reading every word and growing more and more pissed with each line. Finally, he looked at me with those venomous eyes and said, "What the fuck do you think you're doing, kid? You think your whore of a Momma's gonna come and get you like she tried to do last month for the beach? Think I'm just gonna let her _take you_?"

He shredded the note in his hand, and with that, walked into the kitchen. Reaching above the fridge, he grabbed the same notebook he'd ripped the previous sheet from and tore another from it. This time, however, it wasn't the full sheet he brought back; it was only half, meticulously cut across the countertop for a smooth edge.

On that sheet, Dad gave me one rule:

Don't write anything about him, or how I'm doing, or how much of a wonderful father he's been, because it'll only make her jealous and want to crawl back into bed with him. It'll only make her want him more than she did when she left, and according to Dad, that would be bad news.


	5. Chapter 5

_Kind of a different take on this._

 **WARNING: Rape, sexual abuse.**

 **Read at your own risk.**

* * *

 **sheltered**

I meet my mother at the park when I'm seven.

It's one of the few times Dad let me out on my own.

He doesn't know we're doing this. I'm not sure why I am.

She can't save me. She can't rescue me.

She can't do anything; Soda and Pony are her priorities.

I'm nothing to her.

Just a kid.

Her kid, a child she should know everything about, yet a total enigma.

I sit across from her in the grass. Mindlessly pick at the sea of green that flows around us with each swish of the wind.

She's looked me three times. Hasn't said a word.

I'm not sure if I want her to speak. I'm afraid of what she'll say.

Finally, a whisper of words falls on the silence.

"What's wrong, honey?"

I want to gag.

I want to throw up.

I want to run away, let my feet carry me far away from her, from him, from here.

 _Honey._ I'm nothing sweet, or smooth, or nice. I'm dirty.

Unwanted.

Unloved.

Unable to feel anything other than an impending sadness.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

And it kills her.

It kills her to see me. To see me in any other form of myself than her sweet, strong, first born.

I'm not that boy anymore.

I'm hollow, cut off from the world.

I look into her blue eyes that shine with a fresh layer of tears.

And, surprisingly, my heart shatters.

Her lips part as if she's going to speak, and I stare at her, waiting. Waiting for her to say something meaningful. Something happy. Something worth listening to.

"I'm so sorry for this. For everything."

And, like ripping a band-aid from your skin, my heart puts itself back together.

"I couldn't do—"

"You can't."

"I wish—"

"It's fine. You're doing your best."

How horrible: a child comforting their mother rather than the other way around.

"I'll keep—"

"Trying. I know you will, Mom. It's fine."

A question materializes in her gaze.

 _Is it?_

The silence that answers that question is deafening.

* * *

"Where did you go?"

His question is hot with accusation.

I don't respond; pick absentmindedly at my food, rolling the carrots into the mashed potatoes without a care in the world.

The plate flies first, flinging cold mashed potatoes against the wall.

Then, the cup of chocolate milk.

Then, finally, Dad's face is right against mine, a finger jabbing into my chest.

"Where the _fuck_ did you go today, Darry?"

I search my screaming thoughts for anything.

Something.

Just one excuse that will protect me.

My heart pounds.

My hands grow clammy, hot, sticky.

I have nothing.

A smirk manifests on his face.

The first hit is quick.

A hard, forceful, knocking-me-and-my-chair-against-the-floor hit.

I scramble to get away. To run.

But he's already ahead of me.

He's ready to catch me like the wild animal I am.

And then he's on top of me, straddling my waist, holding me there with his legs.

Something falls. Something unzips.

The air conditioning is cold against my abdomen.

Something crawls, sick and twisted, into me.

And I scream.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thank you for such kind reviews. :)_

* * *

 **sheltered**

I know they see it.

The scars.

The bruises.

The endless ring of black under my eyes.

The tears that never show. The tears that threaten to spill at any moment.

And I know they want to help.

They want to ask what's wrong.

If I'm being abused.

And at one time, I know they would have.

But it's like they've refused to let the thought creep into their small, disheveled brains.

It's like they've refused to see how broken I am.

And at one time, at one point, I know they would have taken me away from him.

But not now.

If my own mother can't get me out of here, then why should the school try and help?

* * *

He tells me to forgive him.

Forgive him for the abuse; the drinking; the drugs.

Forgive him for letting me down.

Part of me wants to.

Just so it ends; just so it's over.

So I can stop shaking at night.

So I can stop the anxiety I feel around him.

So it all just _ends_.

But the other part of me can't. It's the same thing he told Momma when she threatened to leave him the first time.

She was pregnant with Soda then.

 _"Forgive me, baby. I promise I'll change. I promise this won't happen again."_

It's a slur of words, a slur of lies, and though it worked on Momma, it won't work on me.

 _"Please, honey-think about the baby. What will happen if his father ain't around?"_

Soda's not here. I am.

 _"I love you so much. Don't leave. I can change; I will change."_

She thought he would.

 _"I'll go get help."_

He never did.

* * *

He was sober for a time. But it wasn't because of therapy or intervention.

It was because he didn't want Pony to suffer from the alcohol withdrawals that Soda did when Momma started drinking to combat Dad's abuse.

If he stopped, she stopped.

If he started, she started.

It was like a game of copy cat.

She didn't mean it.

She didn't know what to do.

She was younger, innocent, weak.

He was older, influential, strong.

Together, they brought out the best and worst of each other.

* * *

He saved me for himself.

He kept me for himself. His own wishes, his own sexual desire.

 _"I'll find a way to get you out of this, Darry, don't you worry."_

I'm sorry, Momma. I'm sorry I've let him do this.

 _"It's gonna be okay, honey. I'm here, I'm here. I'm doing what I can."_

It's not enough.

 _"You'll be with me and your brothers. Soda and Pony miss you."_

I don't exist to them.

 _"You do so, young man. You're their oldest brother. You have always existed to them."_

What about you, Momma? Do I exist to you?

 _"Of course you do! Darry, baby, you're my light. I love you very much."_

I'm sorry I've let you down.

My voice cracks.

The phone line goes dead.

My sob is the last thing she hears.


	7. Chapter 7

_A little bit of a different take on this. From our "favorite" Dad. ;)_

* * *

 **sheltered**

It's different with him.

With Darry.

I don't mean to hit him.

I promise I don't; I just get angry, or sad, or depressed,

and everything comes out.

But it's different.

I can see him.

I'm not blinded by my anger, my lack of compassion.

I can see him.

In his entirety.

In his small, meek, and innocent form, and yet I still rag on him.

I can see the tears.

The pain.

The anger.

The sorrow.

I can see _everything._

His mother was never this weak, this defeated, this pitiful.

His mother was never this _broken_.

He falls apart in my hands, like watered down clay.

Completely in my control.

He falls to my every command; something his mother never did.

Something she should've done if she wanted him that badly.

He falls to me, begs to me to stop, to let the pain stop.

I don't.

It's too late for that.

He screams as I enter him.

It's like music to my ears.

Strong, beautiful, yet agonizing music.

He cries to me; his pain is bright, like the sun has trapped itself in his gaze.

His eyes bore into mine.

"Stop, Dad, please-"

I can see it.

The anger.

The conflict in his eyes.

"Stop."

A broken soul.

My broken son.

He screams again.

My beautiful, tragically broken, limp as a wet ragdoll, son.

His lips move in another complaint, another beg.

I hear nothing but the screams.

I slowly leave his body, watching him.

Watching the heat of agony rip through him, watching the tears that fall down his face.

I stroke his hair with one hand, brushing the tears with the other.

He flinches into my touch.

I smile and kiss his forehead.


	8. Chapter 8

**sheltered**

* * *

I see her when I'm walking to school one hot, yet dreary morning.

I see her, in her light blue Cadillac, her blue eyes trained on my shaggy backpack that barely hangs on my shoulder.

I see her.

I see Mom.

I look for my brothers in the backseat, and then I remember that Soda can drive.

And in their absence, because of their absence, I find myself walking towards her.

Running.

Running until she rolls down the window and I peer inside.

For a moment, I think she's going to tell me to get in.

To drive away.

I think she's going to save me.

But all she does-all she ever does-is look at me with those same, saddened eyes, and I see the thousand and one questions stirring in her head.

All she ever does is lean over the passenger seat and put her hand over mine, squeezing it lightly.

"How are you?"

"Why are you here?"

The question is hot with fury.

She stares at me, dazed.

"Soda can drive now. Why are you here?"

Her eyes search mine, as if they hold the answer to my own question.

"Momma," I say, harsher than I intended.

Her head drops to the steering wheel.

"Momma," I repeat, softer this time, "Why are you-"

When she looks at me, her eyes shimmer with tears.

"I had to see you, baby. I couldn't leave without seeing you."

I blink, my mind fogging. "Leave? What do you mean?"

"I have to go, Darry. I gotta go somewhere."

"What about Soda? What about Pony?"

She smiles. Even her smile is sad.

"They'll be fine. They have you."

I feel like I'm six again.

I said the same thing to her at the courthouse.

This conversation has been spoken before.

But it's different; instead of me comforting her, she's comforting _me_.

I stare at her, my mouth open, my body cold.

Momma raises her eyes to mine.

"I love you, honey. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything."

That's how the conversation ends.

* * *

"I'm going out tonight."

I look up from my homework to see Dad wearing pants for the first time all day.

"That's nice."

Dad grunts in distaste as he walks around the table and sits down beside me.

His hand is trailing up and down my thigh, like I'm some pet.

"I could stay," he says. His voice is low, throbbing with a hunger that I can only satisfy.

"No, that's okay."

His hand stops at the hem of my underwear.

"You don't want me to?"

He sounds hurt.

"Nah, you go out and have fun."

I suddenly feel sick as he rises from the table.

His hand brushes my hair, tousling it, then pulls it so I'm looking at him.

He bends the upper half of his body so he can kiss my forehead.

"Well, okay, I guess."

He grabs his coat, winks at me, and shuts the front door.

I watch him go, one of my hands on my math homework, the other trying to suppress the heat that threatens to spill in my underwear.


	9. Chapter 9

_I was home from college with strep throat this weekend, so here is this._

* * *

 **sheltered**

* * *

He doesn't come back.

Neither does Momma.

I don't get to ask where he went.

Where she went.

Why she left.

Why she didn't take me with her.

I don't get to ask her if leaving me was because she loved me too much,

or because she loved Soda and Pony too much,

or because she loved Dad too much.

I don't get to ask her why she never saved me.

I guess it doesn't matter now.

* * *

I'll never get to ask why.

Why he did what he did.

Why he did it to me.

Why he liked the pain,

the begging,

the vulnerability.

None of it makes sense.

I guess that was his plan.


End file.
